


The Story of Moses Bigby

by StrawberryR



Category: Michael Jackson (Musician)
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Italian Mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:58:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3240533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrawberryR/pseuds/StrawberryR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Jackson, world-famous megastar, wishes for nothing more than to live a simple life somewhere quiet and peaceful. If only someone had told him to be careful what he wished for!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in 1984. There is mild violence in the beginning of this chapter, but the rest of it is relatively violence-free. Most of this was written over a year ago, and only recently have I gotten back into the swing of writing it. I have one other chapter so far, but it's unfinished, so if there's a considerable amount of interest in this, I'll keep writing.

The fans were still screaming in their seats. The show had gone well, selling out in only a matter of minutes a few weeks before. Michael was pleased with how well he’d done—a rarity for him. He didn't usually like his own work. He’d always wanted to push himself that extra mile, go the extra distance. “Anything for the fans,” he’d say.

“Anything,” Michael repeated under his breath. “Like my sanity, my sweat, my piece of mind….” It wasn't his first concert, not by a long shot, and he knew it wouldn't be his last either. Since the tender age of eight, he’d been making crowds full of rowdy spectators scream, squeal, cry, and faint. All for the love of music, he’d been told to answer to interviewers and paparazzo who’d ask. “Yessir, it’s all for the love of the rhythms and drums, all because I love it, so, so, much. Ugh.”

It had been years since Michael had even remotely agreed with that statement. His body was worn out, his feet ached, and every night he seemed to be somewhere new. He was like a houseplant that couldn't decide in which pot to bury its roots, and now, he was most definitely paying the price. His back ached from all the dancing, his throat was sore and dry, and if he had to do another night of this stuff, it was going to be the death of him. Of course, he couldn't just drop off the face of the Earth. Although there were certainly times he’d wanted to….

“Mister Jackson,” a woman in a tight bun and business suit approached him backstage. “We need to talk about your voice. You've been losing it since last Monday, now, we've recorded the audio you've been putting out since about 5 towns ago, and we've put together a mix that sounds genuine enough without sounding mixed. We want you to start lip-syncing so you can give your voice a rest.”

“Oh, uh, Michael, a minute of your time?” called out another suit. “Your contract here states that each concert is to be 3 hours in length, no more, no less, and recently your concerts have been only two hours and 57 minutes.”

“It’s three minutes,” Michael responded, walking with the suits caught in his gravitational pull, “the amount of songs I have to do and how long it takes me to change costumes doesn't allow me to be exactly three hours, can’t you just round up?” He walked over to a table set up backstage and pulled a water bottle out of a metal barrel filled with ice.

“No can do sir, your record company is very specific about what they want you to do….”

“Hey, Mikey baby, how you doin'?” a large, Italian man in a suit came out of nowhere and slung an arm around Michael’s thin shoulders, nearly pulling him to the ground. “Listen, about that show, flawless, mwah!” He kissed the air and spoke with his hands, “It was _magnifico,_ oh, my daughter? She loved it. Listen, I gotta ask you somethin'….” The large man had almost dragged Michael away from the other suits when they immediately halted the conversation.

“Excuse me, Mr. Jackson and I were attempting to have a dialogue, now if you two could simply shove off…,” the woman struggled to lift the heavy man’s arm off of Michael’s back.

“If I could _just_ squeeze in here,” the pencil-necked male suit said, forcing himself in between Michael and the Italian, “I really need Michael to take a look at these numbers here—”

“Numbers, shmumbers!” the Italian man said, loudly. “My buddy Michael and I was s’posed to arrange him to play at my daughter’s wedding tomorrow night!”

“Tomorrow? Why, that just can’t be done!” the pencil-neck exclaimed. “At 12:15 tomorrow afternoon, Michael is supposed to make an appearance at the St. Peter’s Boarding School, then after that he has a 2 o’clock lunch scheduled with the CEO of Watasabi Enterprises to discuss the merchandising of his latest album in the Eastern Market—”

“Hey, you better cancel those appointments, scrawny, Mr. Jackson has to rest his voice! If he doesn't stop singing sometime soon he’s going to wear himself out and this entire tour is ruined. Thousands of dollars down the drain! Don’t you care about the bottom line?”

“I care about _punctuality,_ Miss Needle Nose,” pencil neck swung at the sharply dressed woman with his clipboard, “and I can’t have our top priority client here miss his deadlines! Isn't _that_ a little more important than making sure he takes a break?”

“Oh! I am personally offended and I will see to it that your supervisors hear about your unruly behavior, you…you prat!”

The suits and the Italian continued to fight and bicker over Michael, figuratively and literally. As they continued on backstage, more and more people gathered.

“Hey Michael, one of your backup dancers sprained her ankle, you’re gonna need to hire a new one!”

“Yo, Mr. J, some guy on the phone says you’re late on payments for somethin' or another, I told him he could cram it and now he’s threatenin' legal action, you wanna talk to 'im?”

“Hey Michael, over here!”

“Michael, please, if I could just get an inch of your time—!”

“Michael!”

“Michael!”

“Mister Jackson, please listen!”

“Hey, Mike, come on, what do I have to do to get you to—!”

Voices were flying in from all directions, overlapping and creating a cacophony of noise. Michael could hardly hear himself think. He covered his ears, lurched forward, and dropped his open bottle of water on the ground. He weaved in and out between people and forced his way out of the crowd of personnel backstage. Running to a back entrance, he expected to be greeted with the night sky, cold air, and above all, _absolute silence._

He swung the industrial door open and saw a sea of overzealous fans. Men, women, and children alike standing there with T-shirts and signs plastered with his face. Instantly, Michael was bombarded with screaming, crying waves of humans begging him to sign their posters, kiss their babies, kiss their posters, sign their babies! It was too much! Fans piled up, some trying to cut off his hair for their own personal collections, some reaching for his clothing to rip it off to either get him naked or have a piece of Michael to carry with them always. Panic overwhelmed Michael, and so he slammed the door, ran across the backstage area as fast as he possibly could, and locked himself in a broom closet. Shaking, he sunk to the floor, pressing both his feet against the wood door so that no one could enter. He hugged onto a mop as if to hide, and waited.

He soon heard voices pounding on the door. He didn't dare respond, for his own safety and so that maybe they’d leave him alone. It wasn't like he hadn't been used to this already, people mobbing him, but the experience never got any easier, either. Fans, staff, even people who all mean well become nothing but grabby hands and screeching voices. You lose hair, you risk getting choked or trampled if you’re not fast enough. And if you’re extra lucky, there might be a madman in the crowds with a gun who’s just _dying_ to meet you.

Michael stayed in the broom closet for what felt like hours. Eventually, everything got much quieter, and then quieter still. When he saw the lights backstage go off from the small gap under the door, he figured everybody had gone home and it was time for him to do the same. He carefully rearranged himself, gave one last listen at the door, and when he mustered up the courage, unlocked the closet door and strolled right out.

Sure enough, the equipment for the show as well as the costumes and people were all gone. The wires and boxes were moved, and it was an empty backstage again. Michael breathed a sigh of relief, the empty room echoing his sentiments. Feeling comfortable, Michael slipped off his shiny jacket and let his arms breathe. He rubbed his arms and stretched out, thinking about his next plan of action. “ _Okay, so I’ll go down the hall and find a payphone. I’ll call my record company and have them send a ride so I can make it to the next destination on time tomorrow morning._ ”

Michael walked leisurely across the empty room and down to a small hallway, very narrow and short with a small pair of steel doors at the end. He pushed on the metal bar that would normally open the door, but found the door resisted instead of opened. He tried the door beside it, but no luck. “ _Why lock an inside door?_ ”

“I see your game, Jacko,” a gruff voice said from somewhere behind Michael.

“What?” Michael had been sure he was alone. Now he knew he definitely was not.

“You get met with responsibilities, so you just run and hide, don'tcha, big boy?”

“W-what? Wait, is this about earlier?” Michael turned around and faced the darkness. It seemed a lot darker than it was before. “Listen, you've got the wrong idea, I was getting mobbed! I-I had to go hide! It was the only way to get everybody to stop!”

“And even then, you scheduled shit over top what you promised.”

“Wait…is…is that you, Ron?” A large, heavy-set Italian man stepped out from the darkness, the red light from the glowing EXIT sign illuminating the front of his figure. It was indeed the Italian from earlier. “Ron! I can explain all of that! I want to attend your daughter’s wedding, absolutely, but I wasn't the one who—”

“Can it, Jackson! I know your game,” Ron sneered menacingly. “You think you can just cancel plans on me like that, huh? Well, I’ll show you what happens when you lie to Ronnie De Palma.”

Before Michael could think, Ronnie hit him in the stomach with a dull _thwuck._ Michael doubled over in pain, and begged Ronnie to not continue and let them work something out. Ronnie didn't respond, instead, he twirled a hammer in his hand and brought it down hard on the base of Michael’s head.

Michael, now in searing pain and fearing for his life, attempted to run, but was greeted by at least four more men. The darkness surrounded everything, and despite his pupils widening as far as they could, Michael could barely see a thing. He fumbled, fell, and scrambled, trying to get away and call out for help. He felt thick hands grab his wrists and pull him back, arms spread. Another set of hands tied a cloth around his mouth, and the only thing Michael could see was Ronnie’s looming silhouette against the faint red light in the distance. Soon enough, the red light was gone from Michael’s line of vision and all that remained was darkness. One, two, three more hits with the hammer and Michael saw, heard, and remembered absolutely nothing.

“What do we do with this?” The thug holding Michael gestured, lifting the popstar by his armpits like a limp doll.

“Stuff him in the trunk,” Ronnie responded coldly, “If this bastard ain't gonna show up to my daughter’s wedding, he ain't showin' up nowhere.”

The group of thugs walked out of the theatre and down the parking lot. Michael’s shoes dragged across the pavement as he was carried in his unconscious state from the theatre to the black car waiting for him.

“Pop the trunk.”

The thugs did as they were told, and under the off-yellow light of the dingy street lamps, they tossed the motionless body of the King of Pop in the back of the car, tied him up, and promptly slammed the hood shut. It was going to be a long time before anybody saw Michael Jackson again.

#

The cold, ominous night stretched on into what, by stark contrast, was a glorious summer day. The bright white sun shimmered in the sky, the air hissed, and the world seemed bright and alert. Children frolicked in emerald grass, barbecues sizzled with the smell of charcoal and beef, and the air was filled with a general sense of happiness and good vibes.

Alongside the teenagers on rollerblades and the moms in minivans, an inconspicuous black car drove down suburban streets and off into the distance. What the citizens of suburbia didn’t know was that in the back of that shiny black car, in the trunk, hogtied and gagged was their idol and favorite pop sensation, Michael Jackson himself.

The car rolled on past suburbia and off into the greater parts of the American Midwest. The heartland, beautiful as it is, is also an amazingly vast location marked by large swaths of land that can go on for miles without as much as a single truck stop or city for days. Ronnie and his crew, knowing this, reached their destination in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of miles from any trace of civilization. Their plans were simple; dump the body, speed off, and never look back. That’s what happens, after all, when you mess with Ronnie De Palma.

A thunking, clunking sort of noise came from the trunk of Ronnie’s car. Michael had woken up and began to struggle.

“Ey boss, uh…,” one of Ronnie’s thugs said, “Mikey boy’s awake back here, you uh, you want I should put 'im back to sleep?”

“No, in fact, I think it’s gonna be better this way,” Ronnie responded. On a sun-bleached stretch of highway, Ronnie pulled the car over to the edge of the road and the crew got out. Opening the trunk, they found a bloody, struggling pop star screaming and kicking as best he could with his mouth gagged and his extremities tied together. “Oh, ain't you a doll,” Ronnie said, stroking Michael’s cheek. Michael’s eyes shut tight as he shook, terrified he’d be getting another beating. Ronnie motioned to his thugs. “Victor, Juice, take this guy outta ‘ere.”

Victor pulled Michael out of the trunk, throwing him to the grassy ground below. Juice shut the trunk and the three boys looked at their captive. Ronnie squatted down low next to Michael, and continued to stroke his cheek.

“Look at you. You’re helpless. I could kill you off right now, and nobody would even know until they found your body out here in the middle of noplace. Heh. Look at you, all freaked out and shaking like that, you look like you’re about to pass out just lookin' at me.” The crew laughed. “Here’s the deal, I’m gonna let you go, right here.” Ronnie motioned to the emptiness behind Michael. “And hey, if you survive, you get to live. But don’t you worry about survivin',” Ronnie stood up and walked back to the car. He opened the driver’s door and just as he was about to get in, turned his head to Michael and told him; “You won’t.”

Michael, like a worm, inched himself over to the road and begged and pleaded to be brought back with them. The gangsters merely laughed, starting the car and driving off without him. Michael was beyond scared; here he was alone, tied up, and in the absolute middle of nowhere. If only he…Maybe he should call…wait…who was going to come pick him up? Who would he call? Michael had no idea who anybody he knew was. In fact, he wasn't sure if he knew anyone. Or if he knew who _he_ was!

Michael wriggled around and managed to curl up in just the right way to slip his hands over his ankles and make it so that he could stand up in a half-decent fashion. He hobbled over to a metal guard rail next to the road and used its rough edges to break the rope around his wrists. He immediately pulled down the red bandanna from his mouth and took a deep breath. He shifted his weight to his palms and rested against the guard rail. “ _Who am I?_ ” Michael thought to himself. “ _Apparently I did something to piss off those guys,_ ” he thought, _“but I can’t be a criminal. Right?”_ It was then that Michael had a realization.

“Wait a minute,” he said out loud, “if I have a wallet on me, I can just find my ID card and boom! Then I know who I am!” He searched his hips, but there were no pockets in his plain black slacks. He also noticed that his shoes and socks were missing, probably stolen by the thugs who had tied him up and locked him in the trunk of their car. He bent over and untied his ankles, and decided to try to hitch a ride back home. Surely somebody would recognize who he was and help him out.

He sat on the guard rail, uncomfortable as it was, and held out his thumb. He held position like this for hours, but nobody ever came by. It seemed this drag of road wasn't very popular. After about an hour, Michael’s head started to burn from being in the sun so long, and so he made the effort to find shade. He followed the road down a couple of miles, exhausting himself in the process, but finally found one little tree to rest under.

He ran barefooted in the cool, tickly grass and embraced every summer breeze that graced him. He flopped over into the nice, soft shadow of the tree and laid there in the grass for what had to have been at least an hour. Finally getting a moment of rest after walking along a scorching dry road for what felt like an eternity, and suffering in direct sunlight for at least a couple hours, he noticed he was very dizzy. Hungry too, with just a hint of nausea thrown in there for good measure.

Michael attempted to sit upright, but couldn't, and when he went to touch his hot head felt the distressing combination of jheri curl and dried blood. He brought his hand down to where he could see it and saw dry, flaky red blood underneath his fingernails, and shook dandruff-like flakes of blood from the top of his head. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he knew he didn't like it. A swift pang of dizziness, however, changed Michael’s priorities from “find medical attention” to “lie down.”

Scooting closer to the little tree, Michael lied down in the shade and tried to calm the ache in his brain. His eyes clenched tightly, trying to push away the speckled sunlight from the leaves above his head in favor of a nice, black darkness. He felt hot, so hot, and like his head was about to explode from all the pressure mounting inside of it. In fact, maybe his head was already exploding, and that’s where the blood was coming from. Between the strong smells of earth and dry blood, and everything else he was already enduring, Michael couldn't take much more stimulus. The world spun a couple times and his head throbbed to the beat of his heart, and Michael finally passed out in the shade.

He awoke hours later to find that not only was the sun lower in the sky, but his precious shade had moved from where it was before to the other side of the tree. He touched his face and felt the sharp sting of sunburn, and the wince that it brought on only made his cheeks burn worse. Michael stood up, stomach rumbling like a diesel engine, and noticed he’d been sleeping under a peach tree. He picked a few and put them in his shirt like a basket, continuing on down the road. He munched on one, satiating his hunger and warding off the dizziness that came with it. The dizziness that came with a heat headache, however, stayed right where it was, and the difference was negligible.

“At least my stomach doesn't hurt anymore,” Michael said out loud to himself in between bites of the little fuzzy fruit. The peach was ripe and juicy, like manna from Heaven, and Michael thanked God that he’d found something he could eat.

Following the road for a while longer, it wasn't long before Michael came across a fork. On one side of the fork, a continuation of the two-way road that had been there before stretched on to infinity and curved to the east, and on the other side, a one-way and one-lane road continued north.

“I guess I have a choice now, don’t I?” Michael asked himself. He could continue going forward, or take a turn, but really, there wasn't much difference. Neither direction seemed really beneficial, both of them pushed onto the horizon without as much as a hint of a house or truck stop or car anywhere on them. “I guess I’ll go forward,” Michael said. “If the road just keeps going this way, there has to be something at the end of it, right?” So with his stomach lined with peaches and his head content with the choice to continue forwards, Michael marched on into the night.

The sun rose at around 6 AM the following day, Michael still walking alongside the road from the night before. His nap in the shade was barely enough to keep him awake this whole time, and his stomachache had returned. Just about out of peaches, Michael realized he was either going to have to turn back soon or give up hope of not dying out in the middle of nowhere. Then, like an angel, Michael heard a familiar sound coming from the distance.

_Cock-a-doodle-do! Cock-a-doodle-dooo!!_

It was a chicken! Where there were chickens, there had to be farmers! Or if not, there would be more chickens, which would also be pretty good. Michael started running as best he could, the morning dew wetting his feet and the hem of his pants. Sure enough, he saw a white fence and a rooster clucking his way around on the inside of it. Michael extended a hand to touch the cool, slightly damp whitewashed wood fence and celebrated his luck in finding actual, real-life civilization!

A red barn sat inside the fence, and Michael started to really high-tail it across the fence to where the road curved in and entered the farm. He stood on the road, not as hot after a night of darkness, and read the wooden sign hanging in front of the farm.

**THE “BIG B” RANCH**

**ALL FOLKS WELCOME**

“All folks welcome?” Michael smiled slightly knowing he would be welcomed here. Between his sunburn and his tiredness, he didn't have the will to smile big and broad like he wanted to, but he felt it on the inside.

Walking in, hoping not to alarm anyone, Michael followed what turned into a gravel road to the main house. The gravel hurt his bare feet, but he endured it and went to knock on the white dutch door when it suddenly swung open and Michael was face-to-face with a plump old woman. The woman screamed, and so did Michael, causing him to stumble backwards, hit his head, and black out again.

He arrived to a groggy reality, reclined on somebody’s couch. It was soft and old, a little uncomfortable, and draped with a beautiful but itchy crocheted afghan. His head was sitting on top an ice pack, and he was covered with a pink bordered quilt. To his right, he saw the same plump old woman looking very concerned for him.

“Oh, thank God you’re alright, son!” The woman said. She turned her head to the right and called; “George! Georgie Porgie, come in here!”

“Is he dead?”

            “No, he’s not dead, you big lummox, the boy’s just fine! He’s got a real bad head injury, though.” She stood up and went to leave, stopping only slightly before she did. “Stay there, sweetcakes.” She left the room and continued to call for ‘George.’

Michael was dazed, confused, in pain, and tired. He looked around, slightly curious where he was, and saw he was inside a cute little farmhouse. Everything was very kitschy, from the braided rug to the walls covered in pictures, puzzles, and patchwork. The room wasn't very big, but it was certainly cozy and homey. There was no TV, but there was a large old radio that had to have been passed down for quite a few generations. Past the foot of the couch where his feet lay was a divider separating off the kitchen and a screen door that stood wide open, and behind his head was the front door he’d been “greeted” at.

There was a hallway past his feet that he could see, too, but he didn't dare move his head very much. Michael didn't have much time to bemoan his situation when the woman came back with a tall, lean old man. The man walked in and exclaimed, resting his hands on his hips and scratching his head.

“Well, shoot, Betty, who d’you think he is?”

“I don’t know, Georgie, but he seems t’be awake now.”

“Who you is, boy?” the farmer asked. Michael blinked slowly and analyzed the old man. “Hello?”

“Maybe he speaks another language,” suggested his wife.

“I don’t know?” Michael said in a small, quiet voice.

“Beg pardon?” George said. Betty seemed excited to hear Michael say even a few words.

“I don’t know…who I is….” Michael said, slowly. He looked at the wife, then back at the farmer, and explained his situation. “Some guys…they…they threw me out of a car and left me out in the grass.”

“Why, that’s just awful! Now what do you suppose they did that for?”

“I’m not sure,” Michael said, “I guess they just really wanted me gone. I don’t remember anything that happened before that.”

“Oh, honey, I am so sorry,” Betty said.

“Oh, it’s fine, ma’am, I’m okay, really,” Michael assured her.

“Honey, let the boy tell his story.”

“Oh, sorry, Georgie.” The little old woman smiled and sat down on a nearby stool, watching Michael intently.

“I walked along the highway for a while and I found this peach tree…ate some peaches, kept on walking, then I found a fork in the road and that’s how I found this place.”

“How long you been walkin' out there?”

“About a day,” Michael answered. “The sun went across the sky, went down, then came back up,” he said, “and I got here a little after sunrise.”

“Hm,” the farmer said. “It’s about 3 o’clock now. Guess you really needed that rest.”

“Oh, oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I didn't mean to—to impose….” Michael struggled to sit up, when the farmer’s wife pushed him back down gently.

“No, no, no, dear, it’s no trouble at all. The lord says we oughta take care of strangers, ain't that right, honey?”

“I reckon it is,” the farmer said, straightening his belt. “Say there, stranger, would you 'least like t'stay for dinner? The missus and I was gonna have meatloaf tonight, and I’m sure it’s a lot better than some wild peaches.”

“Meatloaf?”

“Yeah, meatloaf, with some corn and mashed pataters on the side.”

Michael’s head was filled with visions of warm, juicy meatloaf draped with ketchup, hot corn with butter on top; and soft white potatoes with extra brown gravy. Fresh bread with pats of butter, the feel of the food on his tongue and the taste…a nice warm meal, the satisfaction of a full belly…mmm. He smacked his mouth once or twice and nodded.

“Yes, yes please!” Michael nodded faster.

“See, Georgie, I knew the boy’d have a good appetite. Most boys do.” Betty was giggly and bouncy and as cute as a bug’s ear, and she seemed more than pleased to have Michael staying with them. “Now, sweetheart, do you know anything about who you are or where you come from?”

“No, Ma’am, I don’t.” Michael shook his head.

Betty giggled. “Ma’am! Such a good boy, you are!” She flipped her hand and smiled.

“Well, if we gonna call you to dinner, we’re gonna need to give you a name,” the farmer said with a grin. “You got any suggestions?”

“Well, a boy’s name would be nice,” Michael joked. He gave a smile and George gave a loud, happy laugh in response.

“Well, alrighty then, a boy’s name! How about ‘Moses,’ since you been wanderin' out there so long?”

“Moses…,” Michael played with the name on his tongue. He _did_ remember the story of Moses from the bible, how he led the Jews through the desert for 40 years. “I like it!” It fit well enough.

“Alrighty then, Moses, now I gots ta' get back to my work, but if you need anything, Betty here can fix you up real good. I’m sure we can work somethin' out about you stayin' here too ‘til you can sort out who ya' really is, okay partner?”

“Okay.” Moses smiled. At least he was with good company. George left the room and closed the screen door behind him, going back to his business.

“Well, now, sweetheart, is there anything I can get you?” Betty asked.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” Moses said.

“Oh, honey, you ain't a burden at all. Just say the word.”

“Well…I got a sunburn earlier. Do you think you have any sunburn cream or somethin'?”

“You have a sunburn?” Betty asked. “Where is it, is it…?” She touched his face and Moses recoiled and seethed in pain. “Oh, lord, sorry! I never seen a black man with a sunburn before, I didn't know that’s where it was! Oh, forgive me! I’ll go get you some salve for that,” she said, walking off down the hallway. She poked her head back out a few seconds later. “And I promise I won’t touch it again!”

Moses laughed despite himself. Good food, kind people, and a quaint little country farm. Truly, what could be better?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relocated to the quaint "BIG B" ranch, a clueless worldwide music icon believes himself to be Moses Bigby, a simple farmhand earning his keep. For maybe the first time in "Moses'" life, he's finally gotten a moment of peace.

The Earth was silent and still. The sun had yet to rise, but plenty of small birds flittered hither and thither, filling the pastel sky with their calls. Crows, black-cap chickadees, and robins sang out across the cool morning air. The sky was an elegant shade of periwinkle, and the land lay entirely in shadow. The grass was soft and wet to the touch, the wood on the outside of the farm buildings cold with the blanket of night, and the morning air sparkled with the last few fireflies going home.

 _Cock-a-doodle-do! Cock-a-doodle-do!_  The cock crowed with the rising of the sun, perched atop a fence post just outside the “BIG B” ranch. The sun rose on August 4th, 1984 bright and early, the howling of the roosters the small farm’s way of saying “it’s time to get out of bed and be productive!” The first to rise was a gentle man going by the name of Moses Bigby, who was currently occupying the guest room of the farmhouse. He sat upwards in bed, stretched his back, and tried not to touch his face very much.

He looked down at his lap, legs swaddled in a cushy wool quilt most likely hand-stitched by Mrs. Bigby herself. He felt grateful for all they had done for him, and while they never explicitly stated he had to help out around the house, he felt obligated to do so. Despite “Moses” not knowing who he was, he knew how his heart felt, and so even though he did not associate himself with “Michael Jackson,” he understood that he was gentle and generous, and felt compelled to help others. Especially poor old Mr. Bigby, who must have been doing all the hard work by himself….

A knock came at the door.

“Good morning, Moses!” in bustled in Mrs. Bigby, already dressed in a simple plum-colored skirt and white blouse. “How did we sleep last night, hm?” she asked in a pleasant, quirky voice. She came in and smoothed out the quilt, plopping her jolly self down on the edge of the bed.

“I slept well, Ma’am, thank you,” Moses replied.

“Were you warm enough? Do you need any more blankets or pillows?”

“I’m just fine, Mrs. Bigby, thank you,” Moses responded with a giggle. Mrs. Bigby’s hospitality knew no ends, it seemed, and Moses couldn’t help but feel like asking for anything more would be overstepping a boundary. He was already a stranger in her home, who had eaten her food and made use of her couch and spare bedroom. What more could he ask from her?

“Now, honey, I know you’re sayin’ that to be polite,” she patted his knee through the quilt, “but like I said before, if there’s  _anything_  that you want or desire, I’ll be happy to get it for you. It’s no trouble at all, really. Georgie and I never had children, and…,” she shrugged and gave a small chuckle, “it’s nice to have somebody ‘round here to tend to ‘sides Georgie.”

“Oh.” Moses felt very small. Mrs. Bigby had admitted something pretty deep to him and she’d only known him for a few (waking) hours. Goodness only knew how long she’d been holding that back, or if she and “Georgie” had talked about it at all recently. An overwhelming urge to break the ice washed over Moses as he fiddled with his fingers. He looked down at his arms and chest, bare, and to his mind suddenly sprung forth something he’d been meaning to ask.

“Um, actually, Mrs. Bigby?”

“Yes, dearie?”

“Mind if I, um...heh.” He gestured with his arms kind of vaguely. “I…don’t suppose you’ve got any more pairs of jeans or somethin’ lying around, do you?”

“Hm? Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that…the pants I was wearing last night are really filthy and they’re kind of ripped, and the shirt’s just…gross, heh, and so I figured if I was going to wash them, I—”

“Nonsense, sweetheart,” she placed a hand on his leg, “I’ll wash ‘em for you.”

“O-oh, thanks, thank you very much, that’d be very considerate of you. I was just hoping…if maybe there was something I could change into so I wasn’t naked all day?” Moses felt blood rush to his face for more reasons than just the sunburn. This was more awkward than a cat trying to squeeze into a rain gutter. Mrs. Bigby blinked. It took her a moment to process the information, and her face turned pink as a grapefruit.

“Oh yes, of course! Tsk, silly me, how could I forget you only got that one pair of clothes?”

“The pants are really weird too. They’re all slick and go vrr-vrr when you walk,” Moses made a rubbing motion with his hands, “so maybe it’d be better if I had some kind of denim or uh…you know, somethin’ practical to put on.”

“Plannin’ on doin’ somethin’ while you’re here?”

“Well, I don’t have any place to go, and I was considering helping out Mr. Bigby while I was here. You know, to say ‘thanks’ for taking me in and as a way to pay him back for your and his hospitality.” Moses smiled, hoping Mrs. Bigby would be appreciative of his kindness. He was a little disheartened when she furrowed her brow and stuck her lip out.

“Oh, Moses, you ain’t gotta do that. We’re takin’ care of you out of the kindness of our hearts, and besides, you’ve got an awful bad head injury…I think you should stay indoors and get some rest. At least for today.”

“But don’t you think the fresh air would be good for my head?” Moses grinned and batted his eyelashes. “After all, if you bump your head and go to bed, you won’t wake up in the morning.”

“Hmm, but you slept just fine, you said.” Mrs. Bigby stood up, hands on her hips and wiggling her finger. Moses wasn’t sure how to respond, and that made her giggle. She went to pick up his clothing from the floor next to the nightstand. “Besides, we’s doin’ this ‘cause we’s kind Christian folk. It’s a good deed that don’t need to be repaid. After all, you can tell the character of somebody by how they treat people that can’t pay ‘em back.”

“But I could pay you back!” Moses whipped the blanket off to reveal himself in nothing but a pair of white drawers. “I could help! I-I can probably do lots of things! I’ve got some muscles, so maybe I can lift—” He had his feet on the ground and attempted to stand, but the minute he put any pressure on the balls of his feet, a sharp twinge of pain shot up like lightning from his foot, through his ankles, up his spine, and paralyzed him in an all-over ache. “ _ha-a-a-ayyy…_ ah…ohhh….” Moses gasped and moaned in agony, plopping back down on the bed and touching his back. Letting his shoulders move back, he felt the sting of sunburn on his arms yet again. It was a chain reaction of pain causing pain causing pain. He could swear he was about to cry.

“Now Moses, I told you!” Mrs. Bigby dropped the clothes and eased Moses back into bed. “Now look at you, you gone and got yourself all stove up. You must’ve been doin’ somethin’ mighty demanding a couple days ago.”

“Days?” Moses said, wincing and groaning.

“Yes! This kind of thing takes more than just one day of walkin’ to cause. You must’ve been up on your feet, doin’ something real demanding to be so achey and breaky today.”

“So I guess that’s a no-go on the help for today?”

“’Fraid so, sweetheart, but don’t worry, you can keep me company.”

“That sounds fun, ah….” Moses winced. He laid back down in bed and Mrs. Bigby wooshed the blanket back over him.

“Oh, it will be! I can be as feisty as a cat!” she said, playfully. She crinkled her nose and smiled wide. “It’ll be nice to have some company around for a change!”

“Your husband doesn’t talk to you?”

“Of course he does! It’s just that a lot of the day, he’s out mowin’ and milkin’ and trimmin’ and liftin’…up-keep at a farm don’t do itself!

“Why doesn’t he hire any ranch hands?”

“That stubborn old goat thinks he can do everything himself, and I suppose I only make it worse by not stoppin’ him.” She rolled her eyes and smiled, picking up Moses’ clothes a second time.

“That stubborn old goat does what, now?” George Bigby, her husband, stood leaning against the door frame between the hall and Moses’ room.

“Oh, mornin’ Georgie,” Betty said. “I was just checkin’ up on Moses here.”

“Speakin’ a’Moses, how’s he doin’ with his head?” He pointed towards his own head.

“Inside or out?”

“Yup.”

“Inside, not so good, still a little scrambled, but I think his outside’s healin’ up pretty nicely.”

“Well, that’s good to hear, any idea who he is yet?”

“Well, I think we got somethin’.”

“We do?” Moses asked.

“Mhmm! You got nice soft hands like me, but your tummy’s all tight and your feet are all sore. So you do somethin’ that doesn’t make your hands all rough and scaly, but keeps y’active. So we know you’re on your feet, but you’re not doin’ somethin’ like…well, farmin’. Not to mention these silky pants you were wearin’ when you came here.”

“Think he could be from the radio?” George asked.

“I don’t know for sure,” replied Betty, “but I was thinkin’ maybe he’s one of them models.” 

“A model?”

“Yeah, like you see in the stores. He has to look pretty, and he’s on his feet a lot, but he don’t do nothin’ but stand there and act cute. And he does look pretty cute, don’t he Georgie?”

“I…can’t say I can tell.” Mr. Bigby gave a laugh and Mrs. Bigby gave him a gentle whack to the chest. She went to leave, but paused in the doorway to talk to Moses.

“Whatever this ol’ badger says, don’t listen to ‘im. I’ll get your clothes washed, but I want you to stay in bed today. Don’t go out there in the field and kill yourself tryna pay us back, you hear?” Moses was sitting upright, smiling at his lap, still reeling from Mrs. Bigby calling him cute.

“Uh huh,” Moses nodded, “I hear. Thanks, Mrs. Bigby.”

“No problem,  _oh,_  and call me Betty, darlin’. You’re a guest in this house, you ain’t gotta feel like you’s a stranger no more!” She turned down the hall and left, meanwhile George walked in to greet his new houseguest.

“So, Betty’s got you all comfy cozy in here?”

“Oh, yes, it’s really nice. Thank you so much for letting me stay, sir.” George held up his hand.

“You ain’t gotta call me ‘sir,’ young fella, it’s quite alright. I’m still just curious as to who you is.”

“Well, I don’t know. I’m sorry.” Moses shrugged.

“Your voice does sound mighty familiar,” George said, “I feel like I’ve heard it somewhere before.”

“Really?” Moses was surprised. Maybe he  _was_  a model.

“I think so. Can’t be sure. Either way, just wanted to see what Betty was doin’ down here.”

“Nothin’ much, just checkin’ up on me.” Moses smiled. “Hey, and uh, Mr. George?”

“Yes, Moses?”

“When she lets me get out of bed, think I can help out around the farm?”

“Ohh, I see how it is, we get a guest and Betty thinks she can turn you into my new ranch hand.”

“Oh, no sir—I mean, George. It was my idea.”

“You ain’t just sayin’ that ‘cause she told ya’ to, right?”

“Goodness no, I just figured, since you were kind enough to let me stay here and eat your food and be a part of your uh…your little ‘unit,’ I feel it’s only fair if I carry my weight around here. Milk cows, trim the horses, paint the barn.”

“Well, we don’t ‘trim’ our horses and the barn’s doin’ just fine with its current coat of paint. Though when you do start feelin’ better, I  _suppose_  you could help with some easy things, like gatherin’ the eggs and washin’ the dog. I mean, I can do it on my own, but I figure with the two of us, we can prob’ly get the chores done twice as fast once I show you the ropes.”

“Awesome.” Moses smiled. George smiled and nodded in return.

“We gonn’ be havin’ breakfast in a few shakes, so if you feel well enough to get outta bed—”

“I can bring it to his room,” Betty said in the hallway, finished loading the laundry. “I want the boy to save his strength.”

“You’re spoilin’ ‘im, Betty,” George replied.

“Oh I know, but who else do we got to spoil?”

“You do have a point.”

“What’s for breakfast?” Moses asked softly.

“What you hungry for?” Betty asked.

“Um….” Moses could vaguely remember a taste he wanted, but couldn’t remember where he’d eaten it or what it was. He held out his hands as if he were holding a sandwich and tried to recall what it was he’d ate before, but it just wasn’t coming to him.

“If you don’t know what you want, we got eggs, we got ham, sausage, bread, jelly…all kinds of amenities.”

“You know what I like, honey,” George told Betty.

“You like them egg and ham sandwiches on toast, Georgie, I know your game.”

“Egg and ham?” Moses asked.

“Oh, yes, they’s Georgie’s favorite. He always gets it at that restaurant we like in the city.” Bells went off in Moses’ head.

“Can I have one of those too?” Moses asked. It might be what he vaguely recalled eating. Even if it wasn’t, it still sounded delicious.

“Alrighty then, the order’s two ham-and-egg sammiches, and how about some hot coffee for my big, strong, men?”

“Sounds good to me, hon,” said George. “I’ll let you get to it. I’ll be in the bedroom gettin’ my boots ready.”

“Georgie, wait, do you have any old clothes of yours?”

“Why you ask?”

“Our friend Moses here only has what we found ‘im wearin’ when he got here, and it’s kinda beat up. He was hopin’ maybe he could borrow a change of clothes?”

“I don’t know if my clothes would fit the skinny little twig, but we can sure as heck find out.” George smiled at Moses. “Say boy, what kinda clothes you like?”

“Pants, maybe?” Moses smiled. “A shirt if you got one.” George chuckled to himself.

“Alrighty. Pants and a shirt. I’ll see what we got.” He kissed his wife on the cheek and walked back to his room.

“Breakfast will be ready in a little bit, Moses. Don’t worry about havin’ to get up just yet, I’ll bring it in your room for you.”

“You really don’t have to do that, Mrs. Bigby,” Moses said, “I can manage to walk to the kitchen and back. It’s a short way.”

“I know, I…I just want to make sure you’re all taken care of. And if you are one of them big hot-shot model-types, you probably get room service all the time and I’d be treatin’ you like the specialty you is.”

“You don’t have to treat me specially,” said Moses, “I’m okay with whatever you please. I want to be a good guest.” He smiled politely and folded his hands in his lap. Mrs. Bigby sighed and dramatically let her arms flap to her side.

“Aw, now where’s the fun in that, Moses? I gotta spoil somebody and it sure as heck ain’t gonna be that old fart down the hall!” The two shared a laugh and Mrs. Bigby said good-bye as she headed for the kitchen. George walked into the room and handed Moses an old, worn flannel shirt and a pair of jeans.

“Here, try these on for size,” George said. “If they don’t fit, we’ll just have to buy you some new ones.” Moses held up the jeans, noting how tall they were compared to his own legs.

“May I get some privacy to put these on, please?”

“You sure can, I’ll step out in the hall.” George left the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

#

The sound of sizzling ham and the smells of breakfast were intoxicating, and the best part was how they filled the entire house. There was a warm meatiness to its smell, with an underlying campy tinge of the wood-burning stove. The smell of buttery toasted bread and fresh eggs wafted through as a final touch, the smells making Moses water at the mouth.

Moses tried on the old pair of blue jeans, sitting on the edge of the bed and sliding them as far up his legs as he could get them. Tiring of trying to lift his butt enough times to put the pants on while sitting, Moses shifted his weight into his hand and lifted himself with the nightstand for support, trying gradually to stand as he yanked the brim above his hipbones and zipped the fly. He fed the button through the hole and let go of the brim.

 _Shoop._  The pants hit the floor. The shirt was also far too long, both in the arms and in the torso. The gesture was thoughtful, but the clothes were just not the right size for Moses. George rapped on the door.

“Hey, uh, how’s everything goin’ on in there?”

“They don’t fit,” Moses replied back honestly. “I think I need a belt…or a tailor.”

“How do they not fit?” George asked.

“You’re a different size than me.”

“No, I mean, are they too big? Too small? Too somethin’ else?”

“Oh, uh…the shirt’s too long, and the pants just dropped straight back to the floor.”

“I see. I’m sorry, Moses, looks like ‘til your clothes are washed up you’s gonna have to stay in your britches for a while. We can maybe go to the department store and pick you up something nice to wear later on.”

“O-Okay.” Moses felt uncomfortable accepting such an offer, but he knew to deny it would be telling his host that he’d rather walk around naked, and that just wasn’t going to happen.

“Oh Georgie!” Betty trilled from the other room, “The sandwiches is done! Come get yours!”

“Comin’!” he called back. “Hey Moses,” he said into the door, “just fold them clothes up and leave ‘em on the dresser, would ya’? I’ll have Betty take ‘em back to the bedroom after breakfast.”

“Can do.”

Moses eased himself back onto the bed. His legs were going to hurt no matter what, and he figured that after breakfast would be a better time than any other to try and at least get up and walk around. Whatever he’d done to himself, he could most certainly  _un_ do.

The sound of clinking plates and chatter came from the kitchen. A few footsteps and Betty bumped the door open with her backside, carrying a plate and a cup of black coffee with her.

“Breakfast time, sugar!”

“Wow…,” Moses said, the word feeling almost vulgar with the amount of desire he had for food. He didn’t realize just how hungry he was until he saw his meal. The plate was more like a platter, large and with lots of food on it. It had, of course, the egg-and-ham sandwich, which was sandwiched between two thick, buttery slices of homemade bread. On the side were a fried egg, a biscuit, and two slices of toast with apple jelly.

Betty bustled right on in and set the plate down on the nightstand with the cup of coffee. She held up her finger, signaling for “one moment.” She scurried out and right back in, carrying a spoon for the coffee, with a pitcher of milk in one hand and a small glass sugar shaker in the other. She set them down next to the plate, placed the spoon in the coffee, and repeated her trip to drag in a kitchen chair. She sat down next to the bed and clapped her hands on her lap.

“Breakfast is served!” she exclaimed with a cheerful demeanor. Never in Moses’ life could he remember a woman being so excited to feed him. Then again, he couldn’t remember anything past yesterday. He looked at the tray of food and back at Mrs. Bigby, and between the two, he didn’t know what to do first!

“I…wh…wow!” Moses exclaimed. “Such a spread!”

“Mhmm, that’s right darlin’. From where I’m from, we feed our fam’ly good,” she said, “and if somebody goes hungry, well, that’s their own damn fault. But don’t you worry ‘bout none o’that, Mama Betty’s here to make sure you get fed and fed right. You look so skinny, why, we gotta at least put…oh, I don’t know, 5, 10 pounds on you?” Betty giggled. “Besides, it weren’t fair that you couldn’t join Georgie and me at the table, so I brought in the milk and sugar so you could add it to your coffee if you want.”

“What about George?” asked Moses. “Won’t he want milk and sugar?”

“Oh, honey, he’s wanted the same breakfast every day for the last 15 years, I don’t think he’s gonna mind nothin’. Now c’mere, sit sit sit and eat. I won’t let you go hungry on my watch, no sir.” She smiled the same sweet grin she wore almost constantly, and Moses could do nothing but smile back.

He started with the sandwich. He grasped it between his hands and took a great, big, BITE.  _Nope,_  Moses thought,  _this isn’t the taste I was thinking of._  He was a little disappointed, he’d wanted whatever it was in his head that he slightly remembered eating. However, he wasn’t dissatisfied, and managed to wolf down the entire thing in a couple of bites. The occasional moan of hunger being fought slipped from his throat, and with each expression of delight, Betty’s happiness squeaked higher and higher, as if she were going to pop.

Moses made his way through the meal, talking with Betty all the while about what a good cook she is, and marveling at how all the food was grown at the farm.

“’Cept for the coffee beans,” Betty interjected, “we can’t grow those here.”

“Why not?” Moses asked, mouth stuffed with the sweetness of apple jelly on toast.

“Wrong climate!” Betty let out a loud guffaw. Her laugh was almost as boisterous as she herself was.

After his breakfast was over, Moses almost felt sick. He wasn’t used to eating so much in one sitting before! He leaned back a bit, hands on his stomach. Fullness felt like a foreign feeling to him. He couldn’t imagine why.

“Good meal, huh?” Betty said.

“Yeah, ooh… _great_  meal. Though I think I haven’t eaten like that in forever,” Moses’ belly rumbled, “my stomach’s starting to ache.”

“It’s okay, sweet thang, you’ll be just fine. Oh, and mama’s gonna fix you up with a nice bandage around them swole ankles o’yours.” Betty gathered the trays, cups, and silverware and made her way out of the room. Moses let himself slip down on the bed, feeling the dreary fog of fullness and left-over fatigue wrap around him. He struggled to keep his eyes open.

Time passed quickly between blinks. One moment, he was alone, the next, Betty was in feeding him medicine, then wrapping his ankles with bandages, and the next thing he knew he was asleep. A mid-morning nap, while entirely too decadent for Moses’ taste, was exactly what the doctor ordered, and it did him some good. His mind relaxed considerably as he was falling asleep, Moses assuring himself that everything was going to be just fine.

#

“This is Martin Randolph reporting for CCTV. A missing persons report has been filed for pop musician and culture icon, Michael Jackson. It seems almost impossible how the world’s most popular celebrity has gone missing overnight. Sources say that….”

“Michael Jackson was last spotted at a concert in Chicago. Sources close to the singer say that the night of his disappearance, he was behaving erratically. Some even claim that he quote, ‘screamed and locked himself in a broom closet’ overnight backstage at the O’hara theatre on….”

“I saw it with my own very two eyes, there was this great, big, alien ship that was  _shwoop_ , right outta the sky and landed right over there, it had these tall, gray men in suits inside of it—shiny suits—and Michael JACKSON was standin’ RIGHT THERE with ‘em! Now if you ask me, and you wanna know, I don’t believe he was  _abducted._  I believe… _he was goin’ home._ ”

“Mrs. Jackson, Mrs. Jackson, over here, Mrs. Jackson, can we please have a minute of your time?” Overlapping paparazzo voices swarmed Katherine Jackson as she made her way down the street. “Do you believe your son was involved in the mafia in any way, shape, or form?”

“Mrs. Jackson, over here, please, can we get a statement?”

“Katherine, is it true your son Michael  _died_  and the reason he’s gone missing now is because the family is in debt and can’t continue to pay the look-a-like that’s replaced your son?”

Katherine pushed through the crowd with the help of two large, burly bodyguards. She made her way into the back of her Rolls Royce and rolled the windows up. Inside were a few select children of hers; Janet, LaToya, and Jermaine. Janet was pale as a sheet and had freshly finished crying, her eyes red and wet. LaToya was unresponsive, and Jermaine looked more frustrated about the paparazzi than anything else. The car started moving and Katherine gave a sad sigh.

“Darlings…,” she started in a small voice, “I don’t know where Michael’s gone to. Jermaine, have you had any contact with him since the concert?”

“No, Ma, I haven’t,” Jermaine said, “Neither have Tito or the rest of the guys. We been tryin’ to find him, but the only thing we found was his jacket in a closet backstage.”

“You don’t suppose he was  _kidnapped_ , do you?” Janet said, trying and failing to mask the worry in her voice.

“Now, let’s not jump to any conclusions,” Jermaine attempted to settle the car down. “We don’t want things to get out of hand.”

“It’s all my fault,” LaToya said quietly. “I knew this was going to happen and I did nothing to prevent it.”

“Oh would you stop trying to make everything about yourself, Toy?” Janet said, hitting her sister in the leg. LaToya didn’t respond.

“The cards, they…they had the joker, and they had the grim reaper. The future warned me Michael was going to die, but I-I didn’t—”

“Hey,” Jermaine interrupted, “He’s  _not dead,_  okay? The police are still on the lookout. They think they might have a lead, and for all we know, he could just be messing around with us! No one is dead yet, no one is starving or lonely, everything is fine.”

“Well,  _how would you know?_ ” Janet snapped. “I mean, you act like you know everything! And since when do you even care about Michael? Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who listens to him, spends extra  _time_  with him, hell, if you two didn’t share the same last name I’d bet you weren’t even really related!” the backseat Jacksons started bickering amongst themselves, except for LaToya, who continued to look down at her lap and mumble “it’s my fault, could’ve warned him,” over and over.

“Hey!” Katherine shouted.

The car went silent as it carried on the road. “Now how the hell we gon’ get anything done if you all won’t straighten up? Now look, I’m just as much worried about Michael as all of you are, but we’re  _not_  gonna get anything done by yellin’ and screamin’ at each other like a bunch of half-baked ninnies.” The siblings all avoided eye contact. Katherine let out another sigh. “Now look, Janet, they ain’t say yet whether or not Michael’s dead, and I’d  _prefer_  it if you wouldn’t jump to conclusions like that. You know my poor old heart can’t take much more stress!”

“But Mother, I was just—”

“Girl, don’t you back-talk me!” Katherine snapped. “Your brother’s not dead,” she pointed at Janet, “It’s not your damn fault,” she pointed at LaToya, “and he’s  _not_  in the mafia!” she pointed at Jermaine. He knew better than to correct her, and kept silent. “Now then…” Katherine said, “What are we gonna do about this? We have to say somethin’ or it looks like we don’t care about him.”

“But we do care…” Janet mumbled, wiping her eye.

“We could release a statement,” Jermaine suggested, “we’ll go on the record saying we miss Michael and want him home alive and in one piece.”

“Think that’d bring him back?” Katherine asked.

“I ain’t sure, mama, but it’d show people we want him back and it’d make us look better.”

“I can’t believe you,” Janet grumbled to herself, staring in frustrated silence out the window of the car. The group continued to ride in silence back to Hayvenhurst, the only sound being the low rumble of the engine and LaToya’s paranoid mumbling of “could’ve warned him, could’ve warned him, could’ve warned him….”


End file.
